I breathed deeply in my car. It was cold; my nose felt raw from a year inside with my allergies to keep me company. All around me, people adjusted masks, exited cars.

We didn’t look at each other. I think we were afraid to jinx it.

The vaccine.

After a year trapped inside. Scared. Confused. Bored.

I’m not at this moment certain which of those emotions is the worst for humanity.

I seized my phone with my appointment text. I pressed down on the mask over the bridge of my nose.

I followed a man inside the pavilion.

I got my sheet.

I walked to the man with the thermometer.

“Happy vaccine day!” he said.

Tears sprang to my eyes. Vaccine day. I wasn’t sure how this would end. I didn’t picture a nice man in the pavilion of a retirement home. I didn’t see a whole year … gone.

I never thought I would question my mortality in my forties or fear for my teen daughter’s or husband’s life from disease so early.

I got the shot. I sat in a chair for fifteen minutes.

I went back to my car.

I removed my mask.

I cried.

Happy Vaccine Day. Indeed.